Liste des hashtags les plus populaires par sujet #SELAMORE

. Oliver looked around and finally spotted me sitting next to Lucia. He walked up to me, put an arm around my shoulder, and leaned over to kiss her. She looked at me again, looked at Oliver, sized up the situation: ⠀ “Oliver, sei un dissoluto, you’re debauched.” ⠀ “Se l’amore,” he replied, displaying a copy of the book, as if to say that whatever he did in life was already in her husband’s book, and therefore quite permissible. ⠀ “Se l’amore yourself.” ⠀ I couldn’t tell whether he was being called dissolute because of the two babes he had wandered in with or because of me. Or both. ⠀ Oliver introduced me to both girls. Obviously he knew them well, and both cared for him. ⠀ “Sei l’amico di Oliver, vero? You’re Oliver’s friend, right?” one of them asked. ⠀ “He spoke about you.” ⠀ “Saying?” ⠀ “Good things.” ⠀ She leaned against the wall next to where I was now standing by the poet’s wife. ⠀ “He’s never going to let go of my hand, is he?” said Lucia, as though speaking to an absent third party. Perhaps she wanted the two babes to notice. ⠀ I did not want to let go of her hand immediately but knew that I must. So I held it in both hands, brought it to my lips, kissed its edge close to the palm, then let it go. It was, I felt, as though I’d had her for an entire afternoon and was now releasing her to her husband as one releases a bird whose broken wing had taken forever to mend. ⠀ “Se l’amore,” she said, all the while shaking her head to simulate a reprimand. ⠀ “No less dissolute than the other, just sweeter. I leave him to you.” ⠀ One of the daughters gave a forced giggle. ⠀ “We’ll see what we can do with him.” ⠀ I was in heaven. ❤️❤️❤️❤️ I think this is what ultimately won Elio over: they knew about them and didn't care.

. But I did not let go of her hand. Nor she of mine. City camaraderie. How nice to hold a woman’s hand, especially when you don’t know a thing about her. Se l’amore, I thought. And all these tanned arms and elbows that belonged to all these women looking down from the gallery. Se l’amore. The bookstore owner interrupted what could just as easily have been a staged tiff between husband and wife. “Se l’amore,” he shouted. Everyone laughed. It was not clear whether laughter was a sign of relief in having the marital spat broken up or because the use of the words Se l’amore implied, If this is love, then… But people understood that this was also a signal for the reading to start and everyone found a comfortable corner or a wall against which to lean. Our corner was the best, right on the spiral staircase, each of us sitting on a tread. Still holding hands. The publisher was about to introduce the poet when the door squeaked open. Oliver was trying to squeeze his way in accompanied by two stunning girls who were either flashy models or movie actresses. It felt as though he had snatched them along the way to the bookstore and was bringing one for him and one for me. Se l’amore.

. Like every experience that marks us for a lifetime, I found myself turned inside out, drawn and quartered. This was the sum of everything I’d been in my life—and more: who I am when I sing and stir-fry vegetables for my family and friends on Sunday afternoons; who I am when I wake up on freezing nights and want nothing more than to throw on a sweater, rush to my desk, and write about the person I know no one knows I am; who I am when I crave to be naked with another naked body, or when I crave to be alone in the world; who I am when every part of me seems miles and centuries apart and each swears it bears my name. . #cmbyn #callmebyyourname #cmbynmovie #cmbynquotes #cmbynbook #cmbynlocations #callmebyyournamebook #cmbynquote #andreaciman #acimanbook #aciman #corcordium #italy #summer1983 #timotheechalamet #armiehammer #selamore #elioandoliver #elioperlman #elio #roma #sanclementesyndrom #aesthetic #book #novel #bookworm #cmbynfilm #callmebyyournamefilm#rome#lovequotes

. And he proceeded to explain the intricacies of a straight-up dry martini. He was okay being a bartender to the bar’s help. ⠀ “Where did you learn this?” I asked. ⠀ “Mixology 101. Courtesy Harvard. Weekends, I made a living as a bartender all through college. Then I became a chef, then a caterer. But always a poker player.” ⠀ His undergraduate years, each time he spoke of them, acquired a limelit, incandescent magic, as if they belonged to another life, a life to which I had no access since it already belonged to the past. Proof of its existence trickled, as it did now, in his ability to mix drinks, or to tell arcane grappas apart, or to speak to all women, or in the mysterious square envelopes addressed to him that arrived at our house from all over the world. I had never envied him the past, nor felt threatened by it. All these facets of his life had the mysterious character of incidents that had occurred in my father’s life long before my birth but which continued to resonate into the present. I didn’t envy life before me, nor did I ache to travel back to the time when he had been my age.

. “And you,” I asked, “what moment?” ⠀ “Rome too. Singing together till dawn on Piazza Navona.” ⠀ I had totally forgotten. It wasn’t just a Neapolitan song we ended up singing that night. A group of young Dutchmen had taken out their guitars and were singing one Beatles song after the other, and everyone by the main fountain had joined in, and so did we. Even Dante showed up again and he too sang along in his warped English. ⠀ “Did they serenade us, or am I making it up?” ⠀ He looked at me in bewilderment. ⠀ “They serenaded you—and you were drunk out of your mind. In the end you borrowed the guitar from one of them and you started playing, and then, out of nowhere, singing. Gaping, they all were. All the druggies of the world listening like sheep to Handel. ⠀ One of the Dutch girls had lost it. You wanted to bring her to the hotel. She wanted to come too. What a night. We ended up sitting in the emptied terrace of a closed caffè behind the piazza, just you and I and the girl watching dawn, each of us slumped on a chair.”

. Oliver came up to me and asked me to play something on the piano. “What would you like?” I asked. “Anything.” This would be my thanks for the most beautiful evening of my life. I took a sip from my second martini, feeling as decadent as one of those jazz piano players who smoke a lot and drink a lot and are found dead in a gutter at the end of every film. I wanted to play Brahms. But an instinct told me to play something very quiet and contemplative. So I played one of the Goldberg Variations, which made me quiet and contemplative. There was a sigh among the fifteen or so, which pleased me, since this was my only way of repaying for this magical evening. When I was asked to play something else, I proposed a capriccio by Brahms. They all agreed it was a wonderful idea, until the devil took hold of me and, after playing the opening bars of the capriccio, out of nowhere I started to play a stornello. The contrast caught them all by surprise and all began to sing, though not in unison, for each sang the stornello he or she knew. Each time we came to the refrain, we agreed we’d all sing the same words, which earlier that evening Oliver and I had heard Dante the statue recite. Everyone was ecstatic, and I was asked to play another, then another. Roman stornelli are usually bawdy, lilting songs, not the lacerating, heart-wrenching arias from Naples. In the movie he plays the piano before their first night together. In the book it's like a preamble to their last one. Just look at the choice of music.

. While reading the book for the second time, I met a phrase which was a real gut punch ( alongside many others). The line made it clear that Elio still hoped that their separation wasn't going to happen. He still, till the very end, hoped that Oliver won't leave. He's a smart guy, he knows the rules of the game and he is ready to do his best not to prove himself as naive desperate boy. And yet at certain point I saw clearly that he couldn't give up the hope. They say it's hope that kills us in the end because it doesn't let us move on. So, it was one of the most heart-breaking scenes in the whole book because it showed how vulnerable Elio was in reality and that he was still h o p i n g, when it was pretty obvious that the happy ending is not gonna happen. And who is the biggest loser here? Me, because I can't find this phase since May 2018I believed the line was from the 3rd chapter, but i'm not sure about anything now. Any ideas what sentence this could be? #cmbyn #callmebyyourname #cmbynmovie #cmbynquotes #cmbynbook #cmbynlocations #callmebyyournamebook #cmbynquote #andreaciman #acimanbook #aciman #corcordium #italy #summer1983 #timotheechalamet #armiehammer #selamore #elioandoliver #elioperlman #elio #sanclementesyndrom #aesthetic #book #novel #bookworm #cmbynfilm #callmebyyournamefilm#thoughts

. We turned left and, heading toward Piazza Febo, suddenly, from nowhere, made out someone strumming a guitar, singing not a rock song, but as we got closer, an old, old Neapolitan tune. “Fenesta ca lucive.” It took me a moment to recognize it. Then I remembered. Mafalda had taught me that song years ago when I was a boy. It was her lullaby. I hardly knew Naples, and, other than for her and her immediate entourage, and a few casual visits to Naples with my parents, had never had contact with Neapolitans. But the strains of the doleful song stirred such powerful nostalgia for lost loves and for things lost over the course of one’s life and for lives, like my grandfather’s, that had come long before mine that I was suddenly taken back to a poor, disconsolate universe of simple folk like Mafalda’s ancestors, fretting and scurrying in the tiny vicoli of an old Naples whose memory I wanted to share word for word with Oliver now, as if he too, like Mafalda and Manfredi and Anchise and me, were a fellow southerner whom I’d met in a foreign port city and who’d instantly understand why the sound of this old song, like an ancient prayer for the dead in the deadest of languages, could bring tears even in those who couldn’t understand a syllable.

. Arriving in B. always made me happy. It reminded me of arrivals in early June at the end of every school year. The wind, the heat, the glinting gray platform with the ancient stationmaster’s hut permanently shuttered since the First World War, the dead silence, all spelled my favorite season at this deserted and beloved time of day. Summer was just about to start, it seemed, things hadn’t happened yet, my head was still buzzing with last-minute cramming before exams, this was the first time I was sighting the sea this year. Oliver who? The pic is from Tumblr #bordighera#cmbyn #callmebyyourname #cmbynmovie #cmbynquotes #cmbynbook #cmbynlocations #callmebyyournamebook #cmbynquote #andreaciman #acimanbook #aciman #corcordium #italy #summer1983 #timotheechalamet #armiehammer #selamore #elioandoliver #elioperlman #elio #sanclementesyndrom #aesthetic #book #novel #bookworm #cmbynfilm #callmebyyournamefilm#sorrow